I like both platforms. Really, I do. Facebook was fun when I first joined. It was exciting to be able to reconnect with old friends and stay in touch with family. I could have long chats for hours, catching up with everyone, liking their posts, feeling as if I am a part of their lives. It is comforting on a certain level to be able to let someone know I am thinking of them, and when they read it, I know they are thinking of me, at least for that moment. I could invite people in to see my pets, my dinners, my collection of craft brews. I felt comfortable sharing my activities, my whiny days, my job. The boundary lines are roomy, up to a point. After a while, the honeymoon was over. People can only take so much complaining before they start giving advice. The advice phase lasts about as long as the falling out of love phase in a marriage. Then, people either start really jumping into one’s shit, or they just go away–ghost the whole thing. After a few years, though, strong friendships can be formed and family bonds severed. It happens. That’s where people start getting choosy about what they post and they continue to grow. Whether they grow together or grow apart depends on what they are willing to do to keep the relationship alive. It’s a familiar place, as broken in as a favorite pair of shoes or faded polo. I look at them and hang on to them because they still serve a purpose, albeit much narrower than in the beginning.

Twitter is the opposite. It’s like 50 first dates every stinking day. It’s exciting, addictive, soul-sucking. It’s as demanding as a mistress and as flighty as a girlfriend. Every day there’s something new. Every day, all day long, breaking news, twitter wars, trolling, and somewhere under the noise is a steady hum of news, research, articles, exposure to new cultures, diverse opinions, creators, artists, teachers, journalists, politicians, leaders, celebrities, lawyers . . . and they are all accessible. Unbelievably so. I can send a tweet to Chely Wright and she just might respond. I can make a pithy comment on a Julian Castro tweet, and he might even answer with a pithy comment of his own. There are few boundaries between people and stars. There’s a level of trust and an element of danger, just like a psycho girlfriend. The sheer volume of information can become crazy-making. Woe to the neophyte who wanders into a timeline that is already rolling along and try to be clever. It’s like trying to jump on a moving train while wearing a gunny sack. Pragmatic elitism exists as a desperate filter to at least move the noise to an acceptable level. There are bad neighborhoods and good neighborhoods, just like every city in real life. It takes a certain level of street smarts to navigate unscathed through them.

We need these platforms–to inform us, to make us think if we want to. They can become echo chambers of confirmation bias, and they can impel us to educate ourselves and find out the truth of what is out there. I don’t know anything about reddit or 4chan or instagram because I waste enough time already with these two sites. Being curious can lead me all around the world and back home again. I become a little wiser and more willing to explore, as long as I understand on a visceral level that these two platforms are for me to use, not for them to use me.

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I had this idea that I would write some grand essay on how great life is and how good it is to write for a living but alas, it just ain’t happening. Nothing is really going right today. One thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I tend to get into a holding pattern for no real reason. I stall, hanging onto whatever was in the past, especially concerning my late, not so lamented employment. It’s past time I moved on to something else, anything else, to get the bad taste of their nefarious actions out of my mouth, but as with all sociopathic organizations, they try the gaslighting technique and I’m not having it anymore. I also started doubting myself for a few minutes. What if I really can work at a physically demanding job and I’m just being lazy? That lasted just a few minutes until the vertigo struck again, and my numb legs just played dead, while the creeping numbness in my arms caused me to rub the bulging disc in my neck. This is real. I’ve always worked through pain and discomfort. Now, though, it’s not the same. My mental energy is sapped, my emotional energy is sapped, and my physical energy, while willing to try to do things, just won’t do what I want. Ah, well. A little whine is good for the soul, one supposes. Nexr essay will be on point. It’s been percolating for a while, but I needed to get this crappety crap off my chest and then get about the business of living again.

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It is a quick read that comes straight from me, no chaser, no footnotes, no quotes. I have a sometimes rude sense of humor and that shines through. I’ve decided that from now on, I am going to be intentional about writing and crafting. It’s what I love. I will never get rich or maybe not even support myself, but I will have fun doing it.

I don’t write about politics because it pisses me off so much. I want to keep the peace in my own head as much as possible. I may joke about generic political topics, but nah, nothing that would piss off anyone. I save that for Twitter.

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I heard from someone on facebook the other day that referenced my high school years and expressed admiration for my confidence as an out lesbian at that time. I was grateful for the interaction and quite taken aback that my abject misery during those years went hidden from everyone. At 17, I felt like one big blob of hurt and anger and depression and hopelessness. I’ve done my best to forget those heartbreaking years. When I start remembering even a little bit of that time, anger starts flowing into the mental cracks and colors everything a lovely shade of black. I go back to practicing self-care as quickly as possible and eventually, the anger subsides. Perhaps the anger is a defense against a whole shitload of other emotions that lie underneath. Perhaps all the pain is stuffed in a mental garbage disposal that can only be cleaned out by turning it on and churning that shit right down the drain. And perhaps . . . Perhaps all those rotten things can be used as compost for growth. One day soon, I will look in there and start the process of turning all of it into a useful tool. Today, it’s enough to know that I control the process and random blasts from the past are more than welcome. Indeed, my gratitude for the woman who contacted me is immense. She helps me tease out good memories from the detritus, whether she knows it or not. Thank you, southern lady.